Chapter 6
XXVI. My Watch. I must tell you my story myself, that is, the story of my watch, and bad luck to it, for it was small comfort to me, and what have I now left of it but to tell the trouble it brought upon me.
One day of the year 1833, Tim Looney, the parish schoolmaster, a mighty learned man from whom I got my learning, went up to Dublin to get his lease renewed with Squire Beamish, who is now dead and gone rest his soul. Well, as I was saying, Tim Looney went up to Dublin and had just come back when, of all the neighbours came to hear the news from the big city, and Molly Mahone, as you can
imagine, thrust herself before them all, saying, "'Come, you old picture-card, when you're going to tell us the news, what is de good of you, you old worm, if you cannot even speak?' You know, Maul is rather hasty. "'Ock, and it's more wonders I have to tell than one of you will believe.
I saw the great Bonaparte riding on a flea, and the Duke of Wellington by his side, quite friendly like.' "'And was Bonaparte a very big man?' said I. "'I don't know,' said Tim. I've heard say he was a little man, but they call him the great Bonaparte for all that.'
"'He was a great man,' said Maul to me, just as you are a great fool. So hold your tongue, will you, and let Tim go on.' Tim did go on, and told us many other great wonders, but it's of myself I want to speak. "'Well, then, after Tim had told us all he had seen, he gave me such a fine large silver watch and a thirty-shilling note, which my sister Biddy had sent from Marica, for me
to buy a new fiddle with, for she had heard that I was great in music. I put the watch in my pocket to keep it safe, and then I examined the note all over, thinking all the while how beautiful I would play on my new fiddle. But Tim soon stopped me by asking me what o'clock it was. After looking at the sun, which he himself had taught me, I told him it must be about
two, when he said, "'And why can't you look at the watch and tell me the exact minute it is?' "'I didn't look at my watch, for I thought it was making game of me he was, but I said, "'And how should she tell me the time of day? Can she speak?'
"'You are a big fool, Paul,' he said. Look at her face and see where her hands point to. That she should be able to tell me the time and have a face and hands with which she points was too much, so I burst out laughing, but I took her out of my pocket. "'There,' Tim said, "'don't you see something sticking out on her face?
Those are her hands, and you see they point to numbers, but maybe it's your numbers you don't know after all my teaching.' This provoked me, so I looked at what he called her face and saw the numbers, sure enough, and the things he called the hands too. "'Well,' Tim went on, "'and what number does the shorthand point to?'
"'None,' said I, for it points just half-way between the two and the three. Then the longhand points to six, and it's half past two, it is,' Tim said. "'And how does all this happen?' I asked, for I was sorely puzzled. Tim knowing too where the longhand pointed without my telling him.
"'Put her up to your ear,' he said, "'and she will tell you how she works.' I did as I was told and heard her go, "'Tick-a-tick, tick-a-tick.' As I listened to her a mighty fear came over me, and I flung her from me, crying out, "'The critter does talk some unnatural language, and perhaps she'll bite too.' Tim caught her and exclaimed, "'What a fool you are, Paul!'
For he was now quite angry. If I had not caught her, she would have been done for entirely. After he had held her some time in his hands, seeing there was no harm in her, I took her again and went home. I was half afraid of her, so did not look at her again till night, when the big varmint,
Pat Malloy, came in, shouting fit to frighten the life out of one. "'Is it a watch I hear you've got, Paul?' "'Those ugly long ears of yours heard right,' I answered, for I did not much like Pat, and maybe then you'll be after telling one the time it is. With that I pulled out the watch and looked at her, but I had clean forgotten what Tim
had told me, though I recollected something about her hands pointing to a number. So seeing something pointing to seven, I said at once, "'It's near seven o'clock,' for I did not like to be looking too long to be laughed at by that fellow.' "'And it's near seven it is,' Pat said. "'You're a fine fellow to have a watch.
It's a turnip you might as well have in your pocket, for it's long past eight it is.' The pride of the amours and of the adorities was taken out of me entirely quite by that rascal, for I felt it rush from the soles of my feet into my head, but I wouldn't get into a passion for him to see that I was in the wrong. So I said, "'And if you know the time so well, why do you ask me?'
Pat burst into a hoarse laugh and ran out of the cabin to tell everyone he could show his ugly face to. I went to bed to drown my troubles, but it was one long nightmare I had, first the watch and then the fiddle dancing on my chest, grinning at me all the time, with Pat Malloy looking on.
My first thought on waking in the morning was my watch and looking up to her, for I had hung her on a nail, as I had been told. I said, "'Good morning to you. How are you this morning, my dear?' For I thought it best to be civil to her, but no answer did she make me.
I spoke to her again, and as she was still silent I took her down from the nail and held her to my ear. "'Och, it's dead she is!' I cried, as she still gave no signs of life, and I rushed across to Tim's. I knocked at his window, shouting, "'Are you awake?'
"'No,' he said. "'Why should I be awake at the time of morning?' "'Then,' said I, "'you must listen to me in your sleep, for it's dead she is, and what will I do at all?' "'I hope she had the benefit of the clergy,' Tim cried, starting up and coming to the window.
"'It's not that, I mean.' "'It's not my mother at all. It's the watch that's dead,' I exclaimed. "'Leave me in peace then,' he said, going back to his bed. "'But as I would not leave him in peace, but kept crying out,
"'What will I do?' he growled, "'Wind her up, you fool! She's not dead at all. But give her here, and the key, or it's ruin her, you will.' So I gave him the watch and the barn door key, which I happened to have in my pocket.
It was well for me that I turned my head on one side, as I thought I heard someone coming, for just then the key came whizzing past my ear. "'I wish it had broken your luberly head,' Tim cried, in the biggest rage I ever saw him. "'It's the little key I want, the one with the bit of red tape I gave you yesterday.' I fortunately found the funny little thing in my pocket, but it was not a bit like a key.
As soon as I gave it him, he twisted and twirled it about in her, till I heard her cry, and then he said, "'There, take her away, for she is all right again, and mind you don't let me see you for a whole week, or surely it's murder you I will.' Now mind this, and you'll see how strangely things come about.
If it had not been for this what Tim said, I should not have had to tell you the story of my watch, or it would not have ended as it now must. If Tim had told me about winding her up the night before, I should not have disturbed him in the morning, and he would not have been so angry, and would not have told me not to see him again for a week.
He has since said that he did not mean a word of that, and had I but known it, that Tarnation Pat could not have cheated me. However, I will tell you how it happened.' Directly after I left Tim, whom should I meet but Pat, who spoke quite civil, saying, "'Well, Paul, and how's the watch?
I've been thinking since I heard her clucking last night that it's too late she wants, and that if she had a nest you'd have some young watches in a day or two.' "'Do you think so?' said I. "'I'm sure of it,' said he. So we went along to the barn together and made her a nice comfortable nest of hay.
Now,' he said, as he laid her in it and covered her up quite warm and snug, "'you must not go near or disturb her for five days, or it's desert her nest she will, and you'll have no young'ens. Well, to finish my story, after five days I went to the nest, and what do you think I found? No young'ens, nor the old watch neither, but a big turnip.
I ran to Pat's, but he had gone off to America. I never saw my watch again, but up to this day the boys call out when they are out of my reach, "'Paul, tell us what o'clock is is.'" CHAPTER 27 FITLTY TAUGHT There was a good woman of Kiddle-roo-pit, but where Kiddle-roo-pit is exactly I cannot tell you,
so it's of no use pretending to more than one knows. Her husband was a Bagabondizing sort of a body, and he went to a fair one day, from which he not only never returned, but never was anything more heard of him. Some said that he enlisted, and others that he had fallen into the hands of the press gang. Certain it is, however, that the press gang was about the country, ready to snap up anyone,
for our good dame's eldest brother Sandy was all but smothered in the meal-tub, hiding from these man-stealers, and after they had gone he was pulled out from the meal, wheezing and sneezing, and was as white as any ghost. His mother had to pick the meal out of his mouth with the handle of a spoon. Well, when her husband was gone, the good woman of Kiddle-roo-pit had little left but her baby,
and there was not much of that, for it was only a wee thing of a few weeks old. Everybody said they were sorry for her, but no one helped her, which is a case of constant occurrence, as you know. The good woman, however, had still something left, which was a sow, and it was, moreover, near littering-time. But we all know that fortune is uncertain, for one day when the dame went into the sty to fill the trough, what should she find but the sow lying on her back,
groaning and grunting, and ready to give up the ghost? This was a blow to the poor woman, so she sat down with the child on her knee, and fretted more sorely than ever she had done for the loss of her husband. I must tell you that the cottage of Kiddle-roo-pit was built on the slope of a hill with a small fir-wood behind it, and as the good woman happened to look down the hill she saw an old woman coming up the footpath dressed almost like a lady. She had on a green dress and
wore a black velvet hood and steeple-crowned hat. She carried a staff in her hand as long as herself. The sort of staff that old men and old women used to help themselves along with long ago. They seem to be out of fashion now. Well, when the good woman saw the green lady near her she rose up and began curtseying and said, Madam, I am one of the most misfortunate women alive, for I have lost—but the green woman interrupted her, saying, I don't wish to hear Piper's news
and Fiddler's tales, my good woman. I know that you have lost the good man of the house, but that is no such great loss, and I know that your sow is very ill, which is worse, but that can be remedied. Now, what will you give me if I cure your sow? Anything your good ladyship likes, answered the good woman, for she little knew whom she had to deal with. Let's shake hands on that bargain, said the green lady. So they shook hands, and Madam then marched into the stye.
She looked peeringly at the sow, and then began to mutter something which the good woman could not well understand, but she said it sounded like pitter-patter holy water. Then she took a little bottle out of her pocket, with something like oil in it, and rubbed the sow about the snout and on the tip of the tail. Get up, beast, said the green woman, and no sooner said than done, for up jumps the
sow with a grunt and goes off to the trough for her breakfast. The good woman of Kiddelroepet was now as happy as need be, and would have kissed the very hem of the green madam's gown-tail, but she wouldn't let her, and said, I'm not fond of any such nonsense, but now that I have set your sick beast on its legs again, let us settle our agreement. You'll not find me over unreasonable. I like to do a good turn for a small reward.
Now all I ask, and will have, is the baby at your breast. The good woman of Kiddelroepet, who now knew her customer, gave a scream like a screech-owl, and falls to begging and praying, but it wouldn't do. You may spare yourself all this trouble and screeching as if I were as deep as a door-post, but this I'll tell you, by our laws I cannot take your child till the third day from this day,
and not then if you can tell me my right name. Hereupon the green lady goes her way round the back of the pig-stye, and the good woman fell down in a swoon where she stood. That night she could not sleep for fretting, and the next day she could do nothing but hug her baby, that she nearly squeezed the breath out of it. But the second day she thought a walk would do her good, so she went into the fir-wood I told you of. She walked on far among the trees with
her baby in her arms till she came to an old quarry-hole all overgrown with grass. Before she came close to it she heard the bizzing of a spinning-wheel and a voice singing, so she crept quietly among the bushes and peeped down into the hole. What should she see but the green fairy spinning away as fast as possible and singing awhile, Little knows the good old dame that fiddle-dee-tot is my name. Aha! laughed our good woman, and she was fit to jump for joy
when she thought how green old fairy would be cheated. She was a merry woman when there was nothing to weigh too heavily on her heart, so she determined to have some good sport with the fairy when she came the next day, as she little doubted she would. That night she slept well and found herself laughing in the morning when she woke. When she saw the green fairy coming up the hill, neither lazy nor lame this time, she put the baby under her stool on which she sat so as to hide it,
and turning one leg over the other she put her elbow on her knee, resting her head in her hand as if she were fretting. Up came the old fairy and said, You know what I have come for, so let us waste no time. The good woman pretends to grieve more than ever, and wringing her hands as she fell on her knees, Good kind madam! she cried, Spare my only child, and take the old sow. The foul fiend take the sow, the fairy said. I came not here for
swine flesh. Now don't be troublesome, but give me the child at once. Oh, my good lady, the good woman said again, leave my dear child and take myself. What does the old jade mean, the fairy cried, this time in a passion. Why, you old fool, who do you think would have anything to do with the like of you, you ugly old cat? This, I promise you, put the good dame's back up, for though she had bleary eyes and a long red nose, she thought herself no less engaging than the vainest. So up
she jumped, and making a curtsy down to the ground she said, We cannot all be as beautiful as your own sweet self, and I might have known that I should not be thought fit to tie even the shoes of the high and mighty Princess Fiddle-dee-tot. The old fairy could not have jumped higher if she had been blown up, but down she came again and, roaring with rage, ran down the hill, followed by the laughter of the good dame of Giddleroo-pit. CHAPTER 28 THE WE BANNACK
There was an old man who had an old wife, and they lived by the side of a hill. They had two cows, five hens, and a cock, a cat, and two kittens. The old man looked after the cows whilst the old woman knitted stockings for him, and when she let her ball of yarn fall, the kittens sprang upon it and after it as it rolled away till it got twisted round all the legs of the chairs and of the table, so that the old woman had plenty to do without knitting the stockings. One day, after
breakfast, she thought she would have a bannack, so she made two oatmeal bannacks and put them to the fire to bake. After a while the old man came in and sat down by the side of the fire, and when he saw the bannacks he took one up and snapped it through the middle. No sooner did the other see this than off it ran as fast as it could and the old woman after it. But the wee bannack ran away and out of sight, and ran till it came to a pretty large thatched house into which it ran
boldly up to the fireside. There were three tailors sitting on a table, and when they saw the wee bannack come in, they jumped up and off the table and ran behind the good wife, who was carting tow on the other side of the fire. Be not afraid, she cried, it's only a wee bannack, catch it and I'll give you a basin of milk with it. Up she gets with the tow cards and the tailor with the goose and the two apprentices, the one with the shears and the other with the sleeve board, but it eluded them
all. The one apprentice made a snap at it with the shears, but he fell into the ash pit. The tailor threw the goose and his wife the tow cards, but it wouldn't do. The bannack got away and ran till it came to a little house by the roadside into which it ran. There was a weaver sitting on his loom, and his wife was winding a skein of yarn. Kitty, said he, what's that? Oh, she said, it's a wee bannack. It's welcome, said he, for our pottage was rather thin today. Catch hold of it, my girl,
catch it. Yes, that I will, said she. How now, why, that's a clever bannack. Stop it, Willie, stop it, man. But it wouldn't be stopped, and away it went over the hillock and ran into the nearest house straight up to the fireside. There was the good wife churning, and she said, oh, come along, my sweet bannack, I have cream but no bread. However, the bannack dodged round the chum, and she after it till she nearly upset the chum, and before she could steady it the wee bannack
was off, down by the side of the stream into the mill. The miller was sifting meal, but when he looked up and saw the bannack he said, it's a sign of plenty when you're running about like that, and no one to look after you. But I like a bannack in cheese, so come here, and I'll give you a night's lodging. But the bannack wouldn't trust itself with the miller and his cheese, so it turned and ran out again, and the miller didn't trouble himself about it. This time it rolled on
gently till it came to a smithy, and in it ran up to the amble. The smith, who was making horse nails, said, I like a stoop of good ale and a well-toasted bannack, so you are just the thing for me. But the bannack was frightened when it heard him talk of the ale, so it ran off as hard as it could split, and the smith after it, but all to no purpose, for it was out of sight in a crack, and it ran on till it came to a farmhouse. In it went up to the fireside where the farmer was
plating straw ropes. Why, Janet, he cried, here's a bannack, I'll have the half of it. Well, John, and I the other half. But neither could get hold of it, and off it was up one side of the hill and down the other to the nearest house, and in it went up to the fire. The good folks were just sitting down to supper. Shut the door, cried the good woman, for here's a wee bannack come in to warm itself by our fire, and it's just in time for supper. When the bannack heard this, it ran all
about the house and got out at last, when it ran faster and faster till it got to another house. As it ran in, the folk were just going to bed. The good man was taking off his britches and his wife raking out the fire. What's that, cried he? It's a wee bannack, said his wife. I could eat the half of it for all the supper I had, said he. Catch hold of it, cried she, and I'll have a bit too. Throw your britches at it. There, stop it, stop it. The good man threw his britches at it and
nearly buried it, but it got away and out of the house. The good man ran after it, and now a regular chase began round the house, through the garden, across the fields, on to a common among the firs where he lost it, and he had to trot home again, half naked. It had now grown quite dark, and the wee bannack could not see an inch before it, so by mistake it got into a fox's hole. Now the fox had had no meat for two days, so it made a snap at the bannack, and it was gone in an instant. It would
seem as if there were little use in the wee bannack having escaped so many dangers, but not so, for all its pursuers could do very well without it, whereas the poor fox had fasted two days and must have been really hungry. Chapter 29 Jock and His Mother There was once a widow who had a son, and she called him Jock. Now one day she said to him, You are a lazy fellow, but now you must go out and earn something in order to help me.
I'll do that willingly, said Jock, so away he went, and fell in with a peddler who said to him, If you'll carry my pack all day, I'll give you a needle at night. He carried the pack all day, receiving the needle at night, and as he went on his way home to his mother, he cut a bundle of rushes and put the needle in the middle of them. When he got home, his mother said to him, What have you done and brought home today? I met with a peddler, said Jock, and carried his pack
for him, for which I received a needle, which you may look for among the rushes. Out upon you for a blockhead, said his mother, you should have stuck it in your cap. I'll mind that another time, said Jock. The next day he overtook a man carrying plowshares, and the man said to him, If you'll help me to carry my plowshares during the day, I'll give you one for yourself at night. Agreed, said Jock. So at night he gets a plowshare,
which he sticks in his cap. On his way home he was thirsty, so he went down to the river to have a drink, and as he stooped, the plowshare fell out of his cap and was lost in the water. He then went home, and his mother said to him, Well, Jock, what have you been doing today? And when he told her, she cried out, How stupid you are, Jock! You should have tied a piece of string to it and trailed it after you along the ground. Well, I'll mind that another time, said
Jock. Off he started the next morning and fell in with a butcher. If you'll be my servant for the day, he said, I'll give you a leg of mutton at night. That is a bargain, said Jock, and after serving his day out, he got a leg of mutton, to which he tied a piece of string and dragged it after him through all the dust and dirt. When his mother saw him, she exclaimed, Will you never grow wise? You should have carried the leg of mutton on your shoulder.
Well, mother, another time I shall know better was his answer. The next day he went out as usual, and he met a horse-dealer. He said, If you will help me with my horses during the day, I'll give you one at night. I'll do that, said Jock. So after serving him, he received a horse as his day's wages. He tied the animal's feet together, but was not able to lift it up. So he left it and went home to his mother, whom he told how he had tried to do as she
bid him, but that he could not lift the horse on to his shoulders to carry it. Oh, you born idiot, she cried, could you not have jumped on its back and ridden it home? I'll not forget that the next time, he promised. The next day he overtook a drover driving some cattle to a neighbouring town, and the drover said to him, If you'll help me safely to the town with my cattle, I'll give you a cow for your trouble. This Jock agreed to, and when he got his promised cow,
he jumped on to its back, and taking its tail over his shoulder, he galloped along in high glee towards home. Now there was a very rich man who had an only daughter, and she had such fits of melancholy that it was sad to see her, so that, after trying every remedy and consulting all the quacks in the country, he had it publicly announced that whoever could make her laugh should have her for his wife. Though she was young and beautiful, no one had been found to cure her,
and she was sitting in a very melancholy state at the window when Jock came galloping along on his cow, which seemed so highly ridiculous to her that she burst out laughing. Well, according to her father's promise, she was married to Jock, and a grand wedding it was, and a grand supper was prepared for the guests, but of all the delicacies, Jock was most pleased with some honey he had eaten. Now, after all the company had departed, excepting the old priest that had married them,
and who had fallen asleep by the kitchen fire, Jock, who could not forget the honey, said to his bride, Is there any more of that delicious honey we had for supper? Oh, yes, she answered, you will find plenty more in jars in the kitchen cupboard. So he went into the kitchen, where the lights had been put out, and all had gone to bed, excepting the priest who was sleeping by the fire, and he found the honey jars. He thrust his hand into one of the jars to get at some of the honey,
but his hand would not come out again, and he did not know what he should do when he bethought himself of breaking the jar on the hearthstone. Now, as already said, the kitchen was in darkness, and Jock, mistaking a large white wig which the priest wore for the hearthstone, gave the poor man such a whack on the head with the honey jar that he screamed out murder, and Jock, frightened out of his senses, ran out and hid himself among the beehives.
That very night, as luck would have it, some thieves came to steal the beehives, which they bundled into a large plaid and Jock with them without knowing it. Off the thieves ran, with their booty on their backs, and when they came to the brook where Jock had dropped the plowshare, one of them, kicking his foot against it, cried out, Here's a plowshare in the water. That is mine, Jock cried from out of the plaid, and the thieves, thinking it was a ghost on their
backs, let the plaid, with its contents, fall into the water, and being tied up, Jock could not get out, and so was drowned with all the bees. CHAPTER 30 THE IRISH HIGHWAYMAN It was before the introduction of railways into Ireland at any rate that a certain Irish bishop had occasion to visit Dublin. There was, no doubt, a public conveyance of some sort or another of which the good bishop might have availed himself, but his lordship was a portly gentleman
and fond of his ease, besides which his wife and daughter wished to make the journey with him, and they never would for a moment have listened to travelling in a dirty car or coach, so their own comfortable carriage was got ready. I said the bishop was portly and fond of his ease, but by that I did not mean to infer that all bishops are stout, for I knew one who was a very lean man, nor did I mean that portly personages are all fond of their ease, that is, not more so than the rest
of us are, nor do I now mean that a lean man does not appreciate comfort. Be that as it may, the bishop in question had a handsome comfortable carriage which he thought he might as well use, and indeed, as his lady and daughter were going with him, he had no choice, so the carriage was used and his lordship's horse too, and to save both, as well as the ladies, the journey was performed in easy stages. Now the bishop was an advocate for a moderate amount of exercise,
and for this reason, as well as to spare his horses as much as possible, he made a point of alighting from his carriage at the foot of the hills and walking up to the top, unless indeed the hill proved too steep. On one occasion he had loitered behind admiring the scenery, which was particularly wild and beautiful, and the carriage had got out of sight. However, as it always waited for him at the top of the hill, that did not trouble him as long as he had only the difficulties
of the road to contend with. But soon danger appeared in the shape of an ugly-looking fellow who, suddenly starting up from behind a heap of stones, stood right in front of him, effectually stopping his progress, which was particularly vexatious. From the appearance of the stranger, the bishop felt very much inclined to quicken his pace. What can I do for you, my good man? said the bishop very civilly, and in his softest voice,
for he did not like the look of the man, nor of a dangerous-looking club he held in his hand. As your honour is so civil as to ask, the fellow said, you may first of all give me your money, for I am certain sure so kind a gentleman would not like to see a poor fellow in distress when you can relieve him by only putting your hands in your pocket. Civilly as he spoke, he was a determined-looking rascal with whom it would evidently be of no use to argue. So the bishop
gave him what silver he had about him, hoping to get off with that. But he was mistaken, for the fellow had no sooner put it into his coat pocket than he said, Your honour has made a mistake, for it sure I am a thorough gentleman like you could not intend to have only a few paltry shillings, but I beg your reverence's pardon, for I see now that you are an ornament of the blessed church. It's some gold pieces you intended to give me, but it will save your reverence trouble
if you give me your purse. This was accompanied by a scarcely perceptible movement of the club, which, however, seemed a very convincing argument, for his lordship immediately produced his purse, which as quickly followed the silver into the capacious pocket. I am sorry to trouble your honour, your reverence, I mean any further, for I see you're in a hurry, and it's beg your pardon I do for the same, but I judge you going to Dublin and you can have
everything in the big city for the asking, but here nothing can be got for love or money, and you can see that I want a new coat and hat. Now I'm sure so kind a gentleman wouldn't mind changing yours with me. This is too much, my good man, said the bishop, driven to resistance by this extraordinary demand. Recollect that you are breaking the laws of God and man, and think of the punishment in this world and the next. Be satisfied, for you have taken all my money
and my clothes I will not part with. Now sure was the answer, your honour's reverence makes a mistake, for you gave me that bit of money, and it is that very kindness makes me not believe you, main, to refuse me now. Pray consider, and I'll wait with pleasure for another answer, for I know you'll be sorry. He stepped back a few paces, and as if to while away the time whilst waiting for the answer, he flourished his cudgel about, first over his head, then on one side,
and then on the other. What was to be done? The poor bishop saw that help was hopeless and resistance equally so, and after a few moments hesitation he took off his coat and hat, laying them on the heap of stones by his side. Now bless your reverence, the fellow said, and knew you would not refuse me, but after all your kindness I cannot allow you to be without a coat and hat. It would be neither comfortable nor decent, and therefore just put on my coat. Indeed
I'll not take a refusal, he continued, as the bishop hesitated, and he helped his lordship on, with his tattered garment. He then removed his unresisting victim's wig and placed his old hat on his head. Now I hope you intend to let me go, the bishop said. I have one more favour to ask, and then I will bid your reverence a very good morning. I must beg the loan of your watch till I have the honour of seeing you again, for there is no watch or clock for miles around, and it is
very awkward, for I don't know when to be at my work, and I'm afraid of cheating my employer out of some of the time due to him. Your honour can easily get another. Will you never be satisfied? But beware of keeping me any longer, for there is my carriage close by, and the servants whom I have only to call to my help. This the bishop said in despair, pointing along the road as he spoke, but he had a quick reply. Oh, don't trouble yourself to call, for I saw your reverence's
carriage pass, and it is far out of hearing. This his lordship knew well, so he gave up his watch, and was at length allowed to depart. He hurried on, for he was afraid of another demand being made upon him, and it was not long before he reached his carriage. Much astonishment was caused by his extraordinary appearance, and after he had related his adventure, his wife said to him, Throw off that filthy coat, my dear, for we shall soon reach a town where we can buy something more
befitting you to wear. Not so easily, my dear, was his reply, for I have not a shilling of money left. Well, never mind, his wife said, take off the nasty thing, for positively you cannot come into the carriage that figure. I'll give you my cloak to cover your shoulders. The good man was not used to resist his wife, so he took off the coat, throwing it upon the road. As he did so, some silver fell out, which induced him to make his servant examine it, and to his great joy and
relief all his property was found in the pocket. The party reached Dublin without any further adventure, and a few days after received intelligence of the capture of the highwaymen.
